THE ORANGE GIRL

chapter eight

"Yes! Fuck, yes I left the damn flat, Yoongi-"

His fingers combed through strands of blonde, exhalation hissing between his teeth as he turned away on his heel with a sound of exasperation. But then he was twisting back again, grabbing onto your upper arms and rattling your bones as he shook your body. A thought at the back of your mind mused at how the fire that flickered harsh and bright in the pitch black of his eyes was entirely different to the night in the motel. Not resolute anger, not boiling hatred.

Concern.

"What the fuck were you thinking, Y/N?" Yoongi yelled, face merely inches from your own, eyebrows drawn together and his jaw set rigid. He released one limb to point at the front door, his hard stare never leaving your eyes. "Do you have any fucking idea what kind of world it is out there? What people do to girls like you?"

"It doesn't matter-"

"You don't," He whispered, the vexation still fuelling the flames in his eyes although his softened tone. "For god's sakes girl, don't leave this place without me again. You hear?"

"I made you dinner."

Yoongi stopped rocking you, confusion crossing his features at the unexpected change of conversation. His arm pointing towards the door dropped back to his side, the other still holding onto you beginning to relax. "What was that?"

"In the oven," You breathed, keeping your eyes on his, watching the fire slowly diminish. "There is a plate for you, from the things I bought from the grocery store. I made you dinner."

It was not difficult to pry his fingers from your upper arm with a calm go sit at the table sounding in the form of your voice as you drifted towards the kitchen. Yoongi watched after you in awe, inhaling the delicious aroma of roast vegetables and meat that he hadn't noticed when he initially walked through the door before defeatedly shrugging off his suit jacket and trudging towards the table. He hung the silk over the back of his chair and slumped onto the wooden legs, rolling his head back to look at you fixing up the platter in the kitchen before he ran his hand over his face. The weight of the past few days suddenly weighed down on his posture like cement bricks on his shoulders, shoving him down into the ground.

You had bought groceries to make him dinner.

Skimming around the island bench, you tentatively walked towards the dining table and placed the steaming, outstretched plate before him. Yoongi sat up properly, scooting his chair forward as you put a knife and fork either side of the plate and then pulled out a seat for yourself, lips tilting up at the small hum of approval that sounded from his chest as he started on the mouthwatering dish. It was a rather uncanny sight, a hostage making dinner for their kidnapper at their own will, but then again the pair of you were far from normal.

He smiled around the bite of lamb, prodding at a roasted carrot. "It's good."

"Of course it is," You smirked, watching the way his jaw clenched as he chewed. "I'm a culinary genius."

Yoongi raised an eyebrow as he cut the soft vegetable in half. "Did you eat?"

"A little-"

"Here," He offered the carrot to you on the end of his fork, guiding it towards your mouth. "Eat up. Otherwise you are going to become as light as the dust on the shelves and I might accidentally sweep you up."

You stared quizzically at Yoongi before accepting the bite, and he watched your lips part, teeth sink into the orange flesh as you slid it off the prongs. Chewing, you closed your eyes because damn, you forgot how good you were at cooking. And in the same breath, you were slamming your palms onto the oak of the tabletop, making Yoongi jump and hold his knife reflexively, pointed at you. Travelling your eyes down to the tip of the knife, shining mockingly beneath the overhanging lights, your words were barely a whisper.

"I remembered I'm a good cook."

Yoongi stared at you, wide eyed and wondering, his quickened pace of exhalations slowing until his chest was rising at a regular rate. He carefully placed the knife down onto the plate, not removing his gaze from you. The way he stared, pupils flicking about your features, was as though he were searching for something in the shape of your eyebrow or the hollow of your cheek.

After a moment of unexplained analysis, he spoke. "Nothing else?"

"Nothing at all."

Wordlessly, following another blank scan of your face, he picked up his dishes and drifted towards the kitchen to clatter them into the sink with what remained of the dinner on the plate sliding down the drain. Without looking back to see your curious expression watching after him, the sound of his footsteps echoed down the short hallway before the sound of his bedroom door slamming pursued. You thought he was angry because you had remembered information that was useless to him. But when Yoongi paced around his room, bracing his hands on top of the black dresser with a harsh exhalation whistling out of his nose, he was troubled by the fact that your memory was slowly slotting details back into place, bringing your demise closer and closer with every passing breath.

And he was not ready to have you dead.